


A Little Secret

by Willowingends



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Gaslighting, Manipulation, Mental Abuse, horcruc tom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-23 06:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18148400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willowingends/pseuds/Willowingends
Summary: He's so cold, but when he touches her, it is like fire has been lit under her skin. He doesn't ask, he no longer has to. He never has. But she's changing, she's learning.





	A Little Secret

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sing-me-a-rare volume 3,  
> Song Prompt- What Have You Done Now-Within Temptation.

            All her life she had been waiting for someone like him. Someone who would whisk her off her feet. Who would make her feel special. Make her feel different. Desired. More than the seventh child. More than the only daughter.

 

            Of course, eventually, those thoughts fell away. How could they not? After nine long years together he was her world. After nine long years she didn’t _remember_ anything else besides his cold smile, his cold skin, the way his hands moved away from correcting shoves and guiding prods of a sixteen year old to exploring touches, feather-light kisses of fingertips across her heated skin, turning her cold, turning her skin to goose flesh of a twenty-five year old.

 

            He made her feel _special_. Above all the rest. Above everything. When she was with him, she walked on air.

 

            Even now, even after all the secrets, the moving, the thrill of being together. His hand on her arm, the way the beautiful dress of emerald green felt against her skin. She smiled up at him and felt her heart fly away when he smiled back down at her.

 

            “My lovely bride.” He whispered just for her ears. His arm around her waist kept her standing as he bent to kiss her. His lips so cold, so soft against her own chapped ones. She felt the air in her body leave her as he held her closer, as their bodies pressed tighter and tighter together. As though he would never let her go. His eyes are brighter, brighter than they had been before the kiss. He is warm, warmer now. His fingertips do not sting her skin.

 

            They are _alive_.

 

            A soft cough and he was pulling away from her. His fingers dug in to her side, tighter, sharper, angry at the disturbance.

 

            “My lord,” The blond gentleman started, apology and tension in his every movement. It still surprised her, still confused her. All these older men and women who deferred to him, who would kneel down and kiss his boots if he asked them too. She could not comprehend what he was to them. He was only four years older than she was. How could he have so much sway over them?

 

            Not that she would complain. Never out loud. Not when it seemed to be the only thing holding them back from tearing her apart. She had seen how they had looked at her. Disdain, disapproval, anger. Especially the woman with the mass of black curls. The way her eyes promised death whenever they focused upon her. It made her shiver. Made her feel cold to her very toes. Like this woman was fully capable of killing her if needed.

 

            But he had been there. He was always there. To lay his hand upon her arm, her shoulder, her neck. To wrap himself around her like a cocoon. “They will not touch what is mine.” He whispered in her ear one night when she confessed her fears. “And you are _mine.”_ His eyes had shown the brightest green and she could swear she had seen that green somewhere else, not in his face. A half remembered dream maybe.  Then he had kissed her, and all other thought was swept away.

 

            Ginny felt herself be shaken from her reprieve as he moved beside her, pulling her along. “Yes, yes Lucius.” He spoke coldly, and she felt warmth skate across her body. Only to her was his voice ever warm. Only she was his equal. “We're coming now.” He smiled, and she felt her heart jump to her throat.

 

            She was _his_ and he was _hers_. And again they would show everyone of that fact.

 

* * *

 

 

            The world was dark now. She had a memory, she thought, of a brighter world. Something happier. Something filled with laughter and color. Something where people did not attack each other in broad daylight. She longed for that memory. She wanted to walk in the sun with him. But she wasn't allowed to be out, not without him, and not to any pre-approved places. He said it was for her protection. He said that people would try to hurt him by hurting her. And he couldn't stand the thought of her being hurt.

 

            It used to make her feel warm. Feel like a balloon was filling her up and radiating happiness.

 

            Now it made her curious, resentful. The dreams were getting worse.

 

            She missed the sky.

 

            Surely one day out. One trip to the store. It would just take fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of fresh air. Then she would be back home with no one the wiser. Not him, not their enemies. No one but her.

 

            Her little secret.

 

            Giddiness filled Ginny as she jumped to her feet, leaving their bedroom behind. She threw a trench coat on over her jumper and jeans. She threw on a headscarf for good measure. Perhaps the greyness outside their house meant that it might rain and no one would see it as odd. Even if they did, what would they do? Stare at her, judge? That didn't matter. She would be outside, she would be returning home to him.

 

            Nothing, nothing could go wrong.

 

            Stepping out of the house, the manor, the mansion, she felt a thrill run through her. Gooseflesh bloomed across her skin and she hovered, a moment's pause. Uncertainty on the front step. She could still turn back, go back inside. Forget this little dream, this moment away. One tentative foot, then another, and then she is running. Her red hair is tumbling free as she races down the street, laughter on her lips, brightness in her eyes. Like a child given an hour of freedom. Her cheeks flush and she pays no mind to the stares she earns from the people around her.

 

            The sky above is the richest blue.

 

            He hadn't lied to her of course. There was a _greyness_ to the world, but not here, not now. He was paranoid, and she was a flower in bloom, needing room to grow.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Ginny?”

 

            The voice is soft, unfamiliar. It is filled with overtones of shock, of confusion, and she pulls back in to herself. She pulls the hood of the cloak, and what an odd thing for her husband to own, a cloak, up around herself as she tries to settle back in to the shadows. Perhaps this other woman is confused. Perhaps she is looking for another Ginny. Perhaps there are any number of other explanations for the blue eyed, silver haired goddess staring at her. Moving towards her through the crowd.

 

            Third time is the charm, and her third time out, experiencing the outside world, has bitten her in the ass. Things had been too good, too long. It had only been a matter of time until she was caught.

 

            Of course, none of his men or women ever called her by her given name, but perhaps this one was new. Perhaps she knew no better.

 

            “Ginny, that is you, isn't it?”

 

            Her hands flutter up to pull the cloak down further, but the woman is faster. She grabs her hands, a coaxing, uncertain smile dancing upon her lips. She is treating Ginny like a frightened animal, like a flighty bird, a timid mouse. It makes a monster coil inside of Ginny's chest. Doesn't she know what she can do? How she could end her life with a word? How she carries with her more power than any of them? How she is above all of them by virtue of her husband?

 

            Ginny's lips curl up in distaste as the woman brings her hand away from the hood of the cloak. She wants to slap her. To claw across her cheek and leave her with a mark to show as evidence to her husband of her insolence. But then she would have to admit where she had seen the woman. She would have to court his ire, his anger, his paranoia and fear for her.

 

            She doesn't want him angry with her.

 

            “Don't tell Tom.” Her voice is a breathy whisper as she looks at the woman. She sees confusion, fear, anger bloom inside the eyes of the other woman. But when she speaks, she is soft and kind.

 

            “I won't tell him a thing Ginny. I'm Fleur Weasley, may I sit with you? We have so much to talk about.”

 

* * *

 

 

            The nightmares come on the heels of her second meeting with Fleur. Fleur. Her sister-in-law. Married to a brother she can't recall. A brother who has been missing her for thirteen years. A family who has never stopped grieving their lost daughter.

 

            There is something Fleur is not telling her. There is a tension in her shoulders when Ginny mentions Tom, as she softens as sings his praise.

 

            That is what starts the nightmares she believes.

 

            Tom is in them, he is in all of her dreams. But in these dreams, in the start, he is weak. So weak. Not the strong protector she recalls. He is weak, and it scares her. The wet robes, the black book on the floor beside them. The giant snake and the young boy who stands against her Tom, who put him in this weakened state.

 

            Ginny wakes in tears, fear and  terror clawing at her throat. She sobs against Tom's chest as he gathers him to her chest. He asks her what's wrong, his cold fingers drawing across her cheek. She tells him about bad dreams, dreams of losing him. He laughs, cold and high.

 

            “You could never lose me Ginny. You are mine.”

 

            She nods, curling tighter to him, her fingers curling in to his night shirt. She hides her face against his chest, searching for that steady beating of the heart that matches hers so perfectly.

 

            She doesn't tell him what scares her the most.

 

            She can't remember how they met.

 

* * *

 

 

            Heavy. Ominous. Weighing her down. The albatross around her neck, haunting every moment of her life. Oh clever lines, sharp answers, confidence hid it all. But it sat heavy in her stomach, through smile, through laughter, through tears and pain. Victory felt hollow, despair sank deeper. She knew who to blame. When she woke from the dreams of stained hands and wet robes. When anger tore her apart from inside out, flames licking at her thoughts, devouring rational. She knew who to blame for it all.

 

            Her little secret.

 

            Another night sat awake, a bottle of firewhiskey sat on the table beside her. Another bottle halfway empty as she attempted to drown it out. Drown everything out. Her brown eyes shone with hate brighter, stronger, than the dullness of the alcohol pulsing through her veins. Her fingers twitched, reaching for something. Something half remembered, half claimed. Something she could not fully place. Her fingers curled in to her seat.

 

            It wasn't real. That was what she had been told. That item, that _book_ , didn't exist. It was the representation of everything she regretted. Everything she had locked away. The forgotten memories. The family that had abandoned her. That was what her therapist had told her. That some people imagined safes they had to break in to, buildings they had to burn down. Any number of things to hold their guilt, their trauma. Hers had just taken the form of a book, a diary, that of any young person's. A safe place to write down everything secret. A safe place to hide everything away.

 

            It was a lie. A lie! It couldn't be right. She had never had a diary, why would she choose one? She had never been a writer, why should everything be locked away in a book? She had never, had never-

 

            “Darling.”

 

            Hands reached down from behind her, peeling her fingers from where they had dug deep in to the upholstery. Cold fingertips drawing up along her flushed, freckled arms. The soft sound of disapproval as he noticed the firewhiskey sitting upon the table. His arms wrapped around her shoulders, holding her closer as he pulled himself down to her. She looked up at him, seeking his green eyes, the way they gazed upon her with a look only she got.

 

            “We've spoke about this.” He murmured, drawing a hand up and across her cheek, across her eyes, down to curl around her jaw.

 

            “I couldn't sleep.” She murmured, chasing his fingers with her lips. Just to kiss, just to feel the small hint of warmth that lingered there when he touched her. He was always so cold. Frigid compared to her heat. But he was so warm to her, even when everything encased her in ice.

 

            “And that's a reason to turn to drinking?” He clicked his tongue as he moved around the chair. He slid the drink further away from her and then turned, holding his arms open. She spilled from the chair, her long legs unsteady below her as she sought him out, as her arms wrapped around him. Desperate, clinging as he ran his long fingers through her long orange hair. “Sh love, sh. It's all right now. I'm here.” He murmured against her ear. He stood, swaying slightly. Rocking her back and forth as she buried her nose in his neck and inhaled. The smell of home, the smell of safety. Of _him_.

 

            Her nails dug in to his back. “I'm not crazy?”

 

            She meant it as a statement. She meant it as something confident. As something she could hide behind, as she always did. But he always broke through her shields. Always pulled her back from the edge. Always reminded her that she could be weak, weak in his arms. She felt the tears press against the corner of her eyes and swallowed thickly.

 

            “No. Of course you're not.” He whispered, pressing her face back against his chest as he held her tighter.

 

            She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that everything was okay, was right, was safe in his arms.

 

            She didn't.

 

* * *

 

 

            It is harder to meet Fleur these days. Tom doesn't like leaving her alone. Not since the fire. Not since angry flames licked the sides of their living room. He claimed it was an arson attempt from those who challenge him. Those who hate him. He lies, he lies so well. His voice soft and sweet, reassuring as he gathers her to his arms. But Ginny knows, she knows no one had been there besides them. She swears up and down that the flames jumped from her hand, licking the curtains, all because she had been angry at him for lying to her again.

 

            Why did he keep lying?

 

            She demands answers from Fleur when she meets her again at their little cafe. The woman looks older now. As though the year since they met has ate away at her youth. Her eyes are duller, the wedding ring on her finger is chipped. But she is still kind to Ginny's confusion. Gives her the answers she can.

 

            “Where's your wand Ginny?”

 

            The words hit her like a slap to the face. She laughs in Fleur's face, gathering her fancy shawl tight around her. All this time, all this bonding, all this learning about her family. Her laughter turns in to tears. Into hysterical sobs. She throws herself at Fleur, her hands beating at her chest. Demanding to know if this was all a joke.

 

            Because a wand? What the hell is a wand? Magic, what a fucking joke. There is no magic in this world besides love.

 

            There is no magic left in the world.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Where's my wand?”

 

            She says it softly, curled up on her arm chair. He is sitting across from her, looking at the papers he has spread across the coffee table. She sees the moment his words hit him. He stills, as though not even breathing. His beautiful face, his beautiful eyes, his beautiful hair – as still as a statue. He turns to her, unblinking and she feels fear bloom in her chest. She has never been afraid of him before, but as he stares her down, anger and annoyance clear in his face, she feels terror.

 

            But he is soft as he comes to her, his fingers curling around her chin, his arm around her shoulders, drawing her up and to him. He is _cold,_ he is _freezing._ His fingers feel like death, his chest, his shoulders do not move. He parts his lips and she feels no movement of air as he speaks.

 

            “What do you mean where is your wand, Ginevra? Wands are for children and foolish dreamers.”

 

            His words are confident. Guiding. She feels tears sting her eyes.

 

            He has never lied to her.

 

            Why is he lying now?

 

            “Is it your dreams again?” He murmurs softly, pulling her closer, holding her tighter. She closes her eyes as he presses her against his chest. She wants him to kiss her, she is terrified about what will happen when he does. She has avoided him this past month. He always seemed to know her every thought after they were together. She did not want to risk his anger, his wrath, his disappointment if he discovered she was sneaking out.

 

            She was afraid of the empty feeling that followed every time he left her in bed.

 

            “Those dreams, they're only dreams Ginny.” He is soft, his fingers through her hair. “Don't let them ruin what we have.”

 

            Sobs well up inside of her as she rests her head against his chest.

 

            She can't feel his heart beating under her forehead. She can only hear her own, racing in her ears.

 

            “Come, let's go to bed. We've been apart too long.”

 

            He is careful as he pulls her from the chair. He is gentle as his hands travel across her body. He is kind as he wrings from her screams of delight, of release. He appeases her before he ever takes for himself.

 

            As she falls asleep on his chest she is comforted again.

 

            His heartbeat is strong under her ear.

 

* * *

 

 

            Someone saw them.

 

            Someone snitched.

 

            She knows the moment she returns home from her coffee with Fleur. She knows because Tom is standing on the steps. His eyes are cold, the frozen look of fury. His arms are crossed and he does not open them to her as she stands on the bottom step leading up to the doorway. She has never been as afraid of him as she is in this moment.

 

            “Ginevra.”

 

            Her name rolls off of his tongue and she trembles, her hands clutching tightly to the cloak.

 

            “Inside.”

 

            He stands to the side and she darts inside. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

 

            The lock clicks behind her, her shoulders climb towards her ears.

 

            His arms rest upon her shoulders, his head lowering to press his lips against her ear. “Where have you been, my lovely bride?” He purrs against her ear and she feels tears begin to roll down her cheeks. She has never lied to him. Not once.

 

            But he has always lied to her. She knows this now.

 

            She turns in his arms, her elbows resting against his chest. A barrier between them. A shield between them. She's never needed a shield before but now she finds herself cowering behind one. Behind her own arms as his eyes bore down in to her, seeming to pull apart her soul. She feels the whispers of cold, of something ominous and heavy licking against her skin. She shudders away from him, stepping back, stepping away.

 

            “Why are you lying to me?” Her words crack like a whip. Accusing, hot, angry and coated in flames even as the tears roll faster down her cheeks. “What are you hiding from me? From me!” Her hands come up, warding him off as he approaches and flames lick at her fingertips and she knows they are real this time because she can see them reflect in his eyes. His hungry, hungry eyes. She wavers, but she does not cave. She does not turn away from him as he draws closer, but her shield does not fall either.

 

            “Don't touch me Tom!”

 

            “My dear Ginevra.”

 

            His words are purred, and he lifts his hand, waving them, and the fire is snuffed out. It is like a pail of water is dumped over her head. She is filled with fear, terror, and she sobs, curling down, curling in to his chest. He wraps his arms around her and she can feel the heat, the warmth of life, leeching out of her.

 

            “What is happening to me Tom?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

            She is never alone now. That is her punishment.

 

            When Tom is not with her, one of his servants are. And she knows that now. Servants. Men and women devoted to her husband. They watch her. Some with cold, indifferent eyes while she reads, while she cooks. Others with a burning anger, a burning hate, but they never touch her. They still never touch her.

 

            She knows everything now. That is her punishment.

 

            Tom sat her down that night and wove the story of a world of magic. Of how he had rescued her from a school created to bind the magic to the child. To warp it. To make it impure. He told her of how the magic being locked away and then suddenly released could harm someone. He was soft as he pet back her hair, smiling so softly, so sympathetically at her. He had not told her because she was not ready. Because he had not wanted to harm her. His precious bride. His lovely little fire witch.

 

            She knows everything now. That is her punishment.

 

            Because she knows he lied to her. That he is still lying to her. That the school, Hogwarts, is now closed because a girl disappeared. That Hogwarts was a school for wizards and witches – that they never locked away magic. They encouraged it, fostered it. Just like Fleur's school, Beauxbatons. No, the one who locked away her magic, who kept it out of her reach, was Tom. The man she thought loved her. The man who had been her world.

 

            The world was so much bigger than she knew. Her heart was so much smaller. His heart did not exist.

 

            Her only respite now comes at night. After his hands are warm around her, after his face buries in her red, red hair and he whispers her name as though it is a prayer to a god he doesn't believe in, after his arm drapes across her waist and yet can not pin her in place as he sleeps. Respite comes in the forms of sleepless nights, because if she sleeps, she will find her in that chamber. Cold, dripping, more dead then alive.

 

            In the night she can wonder why he keeps her alive. Surely, surely he had finished his ritual. Why does he keep her around? Why does he continue to leech warmth from her? Leech life from her? Was he foolish, did something in his sixteen year old self attach itself to her? She doesn't know how magic works. She never learned. She doesn't know about lynchpins, about components or magic words. She doesn't know about love.

 

            Not anymore.

 

            When she thinks of love now, she feels the empty hole where her own heart should be. Plucked out by him, taken in his cold hands and pushed in to his own chest. Her heart is now cold, warped, sick, beating in his hollow chest.

 

            In the night, while he sleeps confident in the idea that she is his, she moves through their manor like a ghost.

 

            She finds it in the library. The very library she has spent so much time watching him work in. The very library she never bothered to spend time alone in, because who needed books when she had his words? Now she knows that that was also a careful plan on his part. Because sitting in her hands, slid from between two large tomes, is a small black book.

 

            A small black diary.

 

* * *

 

 

            For the fifth time in just as many nights she sits with the book in her hands. She curls it between her fingers, turning it over and over. It is blank, every page. But she has flipped through it, page by page, and she remembers it. Remembers the petty worries. The way she had poured her soul in to it as only a lonely eleven year old could.  She remembers how she clung to it, how she hated it. She remembers how warm it made her feel to have a friend.

 

            She licks her lips.

 

            She remembers them. Like vague misty shapes on the edge of her vision. A father, a mother. Siblings, classmates. A half formed life she can see through half shut eyes. A life stolen from her. Pulled from her grasp. Pulled before she could even have a chance to live it. She doesn't know what type of person she would have been without him. She doesn't know what type of person she is _now_. What she does know is who she is at this very moment.

 

            The flames lick at her fingertips, a burning anger, bleeding out and curling against the corners of the book.

 

            She is an arsonist.

 

            She is a murderer.

 

            She will incinerate him. She will leave nothing behind but a smoldering wreck of a house, of the cold, cold home he built without her permission, using his body as kindling.

 

            She still doesn't understand fully, but she knows this book is the source of everything.

 

            This book will be the source of the blaze that will set her free.


End file.
